Pàgines

divendres, 2 d’agost de 2013

Stoner de John Williams (1965)

"It is a sonnet, Mr. Stoner," Sloane said dryly, "a poetical composition
of fourteen lines, with a certain pattern I am sure you have memorized.
It is written in the English language, which I believe you have been
speaking for some years. Its author is William Shakespeare, a poet who
is dead, but who nevertheless occupies a position of some importance in
the minds of a few. (...)
Mr. Shakespeare speaks to you across three hundred years, Mr. Stoner; do you hear him?" (pàg.12)

"Sometimes, in the evenings, he wandered in the long open
quadrangle, among couples who strolled together and murmured softly;
though he did not know any of them, and though he did not speak to them,
he felt a kinship with them. Sometimes he stood in the center of the
quad, looking at the five huge columns in front of Jesse Hall that
thrust upward into the night out of the cool grass(...)
Grayish silver in
the moonlight, bare and pure, they seemed to him to represent the way of
life he had embraced, as a temple represents a god" (pàg. 15)

"It's for us that the University exists, for the dispossessed of the world; not for the students, not for the selfless pursuit of knowledge, not for any of the reasons that you hear. We give out the reasons, and we let a few of the ordinary ones in, those that would do in the world;"
(pàg. 31)

"Like many men who consider their success incomplete, he was extraordinarily vain and consumed with a sense of his own importance. Every ten or fifteen minutes he removed a large gold watch from his vest pocket, looked at it, and nodded to himself" (pàg. 58)

"As he worked on the room, and as it began slowly to take a shape, he realized that for many years, unknown to himself, he had had an image locked somewhere within him like a shamed secret, an image that was ostensibly of a place but which was actually of himself. So it was himself that he was attempting to define as he worked on his study" (pàg. 100)

"He found himself trembling; as awkwardly as a boy he went around the coffee table and sat beside her. Tentatively, clumsily, their hands went out to each other; they clasped each other in an awkward, strained embrace; and for a long time they sat together without moving, as if any movement might let escape from them the strange and terrible thing that they held between them in a single grasp." (pàg. 193)